I’m not sure I remember all of our names / No estoy seguro en nuestros nombres: Difference between revisions

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I’m apparently twenty-seven and a half now which means that I’m older than both of my parents were when I was born. Alas, I currently rent and own nothing that can be called home, am still in school, have no child other than you and your siblings, and like everyone I know am living through a pandemic that we were not planning for.
I’m apparently twenty-seven and a half now which means that I’m older than both of my parents were when I was born. Alas, I currently rent and own nothing that can be called home, am still in school, have no child other than you and your siblings, and like everyone I know am living through a pandemic that we were not planning for.


Through this I’ve been thinking a lot about expectations and about relationships. About the family members I missed out on as a kid in Vancouver, of the friends I left in order to go to Toronto, and of all of the other folks who have entered, left, remained, or moved on into so many other directions. Honestly, I’m not sure I remember all of our names. As this distance [[Philip Leonard Ocampo|growns]], I’ve been thinking of what stories might already be [[Francisco Berlanga|lost]]. I hope that through you, some of this will be preserved.  
Through this I’ve been thinking a lot about expectations and about relationships. About the family members I missed out on as a kid in Vancouver, of the friends I left in order to go to Toronto, and of all of the other folks who have entered, left, remained, or moved on into so many other directions. Honestly, I’m not sure I remember all of our names. As this distance [[Shared by Philip Leonard Ocampo|growns]], I’ve been thinking of what stories might already be [[Shared by Francisco Berlanga|lost]]. I hope that through you, some of this will be preserved.  


You came to me through a [[Keren|friend]], whose family works a fruit stand in the Market in Mixcoac. At least this is who I believe you most likely to be, though there is the chance some of you may have come through my [[Graciela Espinosa Gutierrez|grandmother’s]] dining table, ferried over from the Central de Abastos in the City’s east. I am told that four fifths of the food in this city that is now your home comes through this place. You likely made many friends there, but beyond that I do not know what grove or forest gave rise to you. For this I am sorry.  
You came to me through a friend, whose family works a fruit stand in the Market in Mixcoac. At least this is who I believe you most likely to be, though there is the chance some of you may have come through my grandmother’s dining table, ferried over from the Central de Abastos in the City’s east. I am told that four fifths of the food in this city that is now your home comes through this place. You likely made many friends there, but beyond that I do not know what grove or forest gave rise to you. For this I am sorry.  


You are now in pots that I scrounged from my grandmother’s patio. They are made from clay and are painted a deep red — not crayola — but a nice red. Parts of them are peeling, and I confess that one is cracked in two places. They have been in this house for as long as I remember. You may not be able to see it yet, but they are formed with plants and palm trees to keep you company. You are growing in these pots surrounded by soil: commercial tree planting soil harvested here in Mexico, as well as the fine dry soil that was pulled from [[I%E2%80%99m_not_sure_I_remember_all_of_our_names_/_No_estoy_seguro_en_nuestros_nombres#Sites|underneath]] the house you now live in. I have mixed it with tezontle and wood chips — I hope this last detail is not unsettling for you.  
You are now in pots that I scrounged from my grandmother’s patio. They are made from clay and are painted a deep red — not crayola — but a nice red. Parts of them are peeling, and I confess that one is cracked in two places. They have been in this house for as long as I remember. You may not be able to see it yet, but they are formed with plants and palm trees to keep you company. You are growing in these pots surrounded by soil: commercial tree planting soil harvested here in Mexico, as well as the fine dry soil that was pulled from [[I%E2%80%99m_not_sure_I_remember_all_of_our_names_/_No_estoy_seguro_en_nuestros_nombres#Sites|underneath]] the house you now live in. I have mixed it with tezontle and wood chips — I hope this last detail is not unsettling for you.  


I sent out 117 invitations to my relations for stories on your behalf. Some relationships were short but important, others have lasted [[Tania Sanchez Ramirez|lifetimes.]] Some never replied, others were unable to send you something at this time. Some… some I’m sure we’ll hear from five months from now when you are older, asking about ‘some project,’ or wondering if it is now too late. Even now as I write this, I do not know exactly how many stories I might yet read to you. Trees grow faster than replies. I hope these stories help you to understand me, yourselves, your world, and our shared relations.  
I sent out 117 invitations to my relations for stories on your behalf. Some relationships were short but important, others have lasted lifetimes. Some never replied, others were unable to send you something at this time. Some… some I’m sure we’ll hear from five months from now when you are older, asking about ‘some project,’ or wondering if it is now too late. Even now as I write this, I do not know exactly how many stories I might yet read to you. Trees grow faster than replies. I hope these stories help you to understand me, yourselves, your world, and our shared relations.  


We are after all in a pandemic, so you will hear from [[Laura Estrada López|the administration]] who will describe how you, and your fellow plants, might approach this new challenge. You will learn of [[Salathiel|avocados,]] [[Christopher Mendoza|siblings,]] and [[Joseph Nomellini|forests]] in far away places, and of stars that sing in search of [[Emny Moghrabi|friendship.]] You may be asked many [[Maria Hupfield|questions]] you might not have answers to. You will hear a great many stories for you, and about you, even if you do not know it yet. Some may be hard to [[Lily Cryan|hear.]]
We are after all in a pandemic, so you will hear from [[Desde Laura Estrada|the administration]] who will describe how you, and your fellow plants, might approach this new challenge. You will learn of [[Shared by Salathiel|avocados,]] [[Shared by Christopher Mendoza|siblings,]] and [[Shared by Joseph|forests]] in far away places, and of stars that sing in search of [[Shared by Emny Moghrabi|friendship.]] You may be asked many [[Shared by Maria Hupfield|questions]] you might not have answers to. You will hear a great many stories for you, and about you, even if you do not know it yet. Some may be hard to hear.  


Through all of this I hope you grow. For now and forever, our children you will be.
Through all of this I hope you grow. For now and forever, our children you will be.
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<br/>[[Shared by Prodpran]]
<br/>[[Shared by Prodpran]]


==<b>Ahoacaquáhuitl</b>==


'''Of the ''Ahoacaquáhuitl'' or tree resembling the oak which bears fruit'''


A large tree with citrus leaves, greener, wider, and more scattered; bearing small flowers, white with yellow; the fruit has the shape of an egg, but it is much larger in some respects, it is more like a wild fig in shape and size, black on the outside, greenish on the inside, of a creamy texture like that of lard and with the flavour of walnuts. The leaves are fragrant and of a hot and dry temperament of the second order, for which they are conveniently used in lavatories. The fruits are also hot, pleasant to taste, and of a not insignificant nutritional quality, rather creamy, moist, and one which extraordinarily benefits the venereal appetite and augments semen; They contain white pits with some reddish tones, solid, heavy, glossy, and split into two halves like an almond, though oblong in shape and a little larger than the eggs of a dove. These bones have the flavour of a bitter almond, and produce when pressed an oil similar to that of the almond not just in smell, but also in taste and its other properties. It cures rashes, scars, favours the dysenteric bearing any astringency, and avoids the splitting of hairs. The tree has leaves the whole year, and grows in all regions spontaneously or under cultivation, although it grows more easily and reaches greater heights in warm plains.
==<b>The Patio</b>==
 
'''Of the second ''Ahoacaquáhuitl'' or mountain ''ahoácatl'''''
 
It has smaller leaves, a more reddish trunk and branches, and much smaller fruit than the wild or orchard variety, not exceeding the size of the Damascene Plum; in every other way it is of the same form and nature. It grows in uncultivated, rough, and mountainous environments.<ref>Excerpted and translated from La alimentación de los antiguos mexicanos en la Historia Natural de Nueva España de Francisco Hernández (2007) ed. Cristina Barros y Marco Buenrosto.
This book uses text from a reedition of la Historia Natural de Nueva España published in 1959 by the National Autonomous University of Mexico (UNAM) as part of Volume I and II of las Obras Completas de Francisco Hernández. The original text dates to the 1570s when Francisco Hernández traveled Mexico documenting it on behalf of the Spanish Crown.</ref>
 
==<b>Sites</b>==


*In progress*  
*In progress*  


This project was carried out in Mexico City on the former lakeshore of <i>el Lago de Texcoco</i> in the vicinity of the rivers <i>Tacubaya, Becerra, y de la Piedad</i> which were progressively buried and entombed in concrete between 1949 and 1956. <i>Mixcoac</i> forms part of what is known by the <i>Mexica</i> as <i>Anáhuac</i>, or "that situated near or between waters."
This project was carried out in Mexico City near the former lakeshore of <i>el Lago de Texcoco</i> in the vicinity of the rivers <i>Tacubaya, Becerra, y de la Piedad</i> which were progressively buried and entombed in concrete between 1949 and 1956. The patio is near the ruins of <i>Mixcoac</i>, a Mesoamerican settlement dating back to the period when the Valley was overseen by the city of <i>Teotihuacán</i> (400-600 CE), a multi-ethnic city state believed to have likely been populated by Otomi and Nahua peoples. <i>Mixcoac</i> was continually inhabited through to the times of the Mexica and the Triple Alliance of <i>Tenōchtitlān, Texcoco,</i> and <i>Tlacopan,</i> before being abandoned after the Spanish Conquest. <i>Mixcoac</i> forms part of what was then known by the <i>Mexica</i> as <i>Anáhuac</i>, or "that situated near or between waters."

Revision as of 09:03, 16 July 2020

I'm not sure I remember all of our names / No estoy seguro en nuestros nombres

Sameen Mahboubi, Oscar Alfonso & Relations

2020

Avocado Seedlings, Stories

travel

diaspora

expectations

obsolescence

stationariness

Hello

I’m apparently twenty-seven and a half now which means that I’m older than both of my parents were when I was born. Alas, I currently rent and own nothing that can be called home, am still in school, have no child other than you and your siblings, and like everyone I know am living through a pandemic that we were not planning for.

Through this I’ve been thinking a lot about expectations and about relationships. About the family members I missed out on as a kid in Vancouver, of the friends I left in order to go to Toronto, and of all of the other folks who have entered, left, remained, or moved on into so many other directions. Honestly, I’m not sure I remember all of our names. As this distance growns, I’ve been thinking of what stories might already be lost. I hope that through you, some of this will be preserved.

You came to me through a friend, whose family works a fruit stand in the Market in Mixcoac. At least this is who I believe you most likely to be, though there is the chance some of you may have come through my grandmother’s dining table, ferried over from the Central de Abastos in the City’s east. I am told that four fifths of the food in this city that is now your home comes through this place. You likely made many friends there, but beyond that I do not know what grove or forest gave rise to you. For this I am sorry.

You are now in pots that I scrounged from my grandmother’s patio. They are made from clay and are painted a deep red — not crayola — but a nice red. Parts of them are peeling, and I confess that one is cracked in two places. They have been in this house for as long as I remember. You may not be able to see it yet, but they are formed with plants and palm trees to keep you company. You are growing in these pots surrounded by soil: commercial tree planting soil harvested here in Mexico, as well as the fine dry soil that was pulled from underneath the house you now live in. I have mixed it with tezontle and wood chips — I hope this last detail is not unsettling for you.

I sent out 117 invitations to my relations for stories on your behalf. Some relationships were short but important, others have lasted lifetimes. Some never replied, others were unable to send you something at this time. Some… some I’m sure we’ll hear from five months from now when you are older, asking about ‘some project,’ or wondering if it is now too late. Even now as I write this, I do not know exactly how many stories I might yet read to you. Trees grow faster than replies. I hope these stories help you to understand me, yourselves, your world, and our shared relations.

We are after all in a pandemic, so you will hear from the administration who will describe how you, and your fellow plants, might approach this new challenge. You will learn of avocados, siblings, and forests in far away places, and of stars that sing in search of friendship. You may be asked many questions you might not have answers to. You will hear a great many stories for you, and about you, even if you do not know it yet. Some may be hard to hear.

Through all of this I hope you grow. For now and forever, our children you will be.

Relations

Shared by Beau Rhee
Shared by Charlotte
Shared by Christopher Mendoza
Shared by Danni Gárate Cubillos
Shared by Davey Samuel Calderon
Desde Dubravka Sužnjević
Shared by Emny Moghrabi
Shared by Francisco Berlanga
Shared by Giulio
Shared by Jin-me Yoon
Shared by Joni Cheung
Shared by Joseph
Shared by Keivan Mahboubi
Desde Laura Estrada
Shared by Lily Cryan
Shared by Luis Guerra
Shared by Maria Hupfield
Shared by Natalie Chan
Desde Nubia Santiago
Shared by Opal Mclean
Desde Paola Quiros-Cruz
Shared by Philip Leonard Ocampo
Shared by Phoebe Huang
Desde Ricardo Lira
Shared by Salathiel
Desde Stephanie Durán Castillo
Shared by Prodpran


The Patio

  • In progress*

This project was carried out in Mexico City near the former lakeshore of el Lago de Texcoco in the vicinity of the rivers Tacubaya, Becerra, y de la Piedad which were progressively buried and entombed in concrete between 1949 and 1956. The patio is near the ruins of Mixcoac, a Mesoamerican settlement dating back to the period when the Valley was overseen by the city of Teotihuacán (400-600 CE), a multi-ethnic city state believed to have likely been populated by Otomi and Nahua peoples. Mixcoac was continually inhabited through to the times of the Mexica and the Triple Alliance of Tenōchtitlān, Texcoco, and Tlacopan, before being abandoned after the Spanish Conquest. Mixcoac forms part of what was then known by the Mexica as Anáhuac, or "that situated near or between waters."

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